


hold this thread as I walk away

by mazily



Category: Last Tango In Halifax
Genre: F/F, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 22:02:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17252186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/pseuds/mazily
Summary: Gillian doesn't trust the look on Caz's face. Not a bit.





	hold this thread as I walk away

**Author's Note:**

> in which I saw [this post on tumblr](https://ylizam.tumblr.com/post/181601649671/cedargorl-image-is-of-the-back-of-a-elderly), and then I don't know. things happened.

"Oooh," Caz says, sitting up fast enough her wine sloshes over the edge of her glass. She's looking at her mobile, face gone soppy and evil all at once. Gillian doesn't trust it. Not a bit. Especially since whatever's on there has distracted her enough she's not fussed about the wine dripping onto her hand.

"Steady on," Gillian says.

She leans over to lick some red from Caz's fingers, her wrist, to take the glass from her hand and put it down on the table in front of them. Caz keeps poking at her mobile, holding it away from Gillian even when it means contorting herself across the sofa, twisting and turning as she squints and swipes and--"Aaand done," she says, dropping the phone onto the end table. She reaches for her wine glass, and Gillian uses the distraction to try to see if whatever Caz were doing's still visible on her mobile.

It's dark. Actually locked for once, and here's Gillian trying to type in Flora's birthday when Caz reaches across. Plucks the mobile back up--"You'll see what it is at Christmas"--and slides it under her arse like that's not top five on the list of places Gillian's going to put her hands at some point during the course of the evening.

Caz looks far too pleased with herself, drinking her wine and smirking at Gillian. Taunting Gillian, all _I know something you don't know, you uneducated farmer_ , which she knows drives Gillian barmy. So Gillian crawls onto Caz's lap. Straddles her.

Caz squawks, tries to balance wine and woman at the same time, and Gillian takes her wine from her again. Finishes off the glass this time--"Can't be wasting that, not when Olga's not likely to sell you any more now, let alone gift it you next birthday"--and drops it awkwardly on the table behind her. Wraps her arms around Caz's neck, presses even closer and pulls her head down for a kiss, until Caz is squawking for another reason entirely.

And then Caz pulls them both down, Gillian's arse half-hanging off the sofa before she shifts herself so she's mostly on top of Caz, and snogs Gillian like _she's_ the last bottle of bloody ridiculously priced wine. Gillian melts into it, lets Caz feel like she's in charge for now, likes it when Caz is pushy and rude and  _that bint Caroline_. She slips her hand up under Caz's oversized sweater, teases the skin beneath her bra, keeps her fingers light. Caz squirms, tries to push against Gillian's hand, to add to the pressure, but Gillian wriggles away, shifts and kisses until Caz curses. Pushes Gillian back so she can sit up, pull her jumper up and off. Toss it to the floor somewhere to be discovered only much, much later.

Gillian matches her garment for garment, which is to say she takes off her plaid shirt and vest and throws them behind her. Caz's bra is faded black, fraying a bit, and Gillian can't resist the urge to flick the strap against Caz's shoulder--"laundry day, is it?"; "fuck off"--before leaning forward to lick the sting away. Caz reaches back and undoes the clasp herself; impatient and fucking annoying about it, too fucking sure Gillian will be too distracted by her tits to complain (which, fair: they're stupidly magnificent, and Gillian leans forward to lick a stripe just to the side of one glorious nipple).

Caz squeaks, cold and shock and Gillian doesn't know what. Her nipples stiffen. Gillian grins: tries to make it look a cross between seductive and evil, tries to make it count. A hand to the underside of Caz's breast, and then a fingernail flicking against her nipple to make her make that noise again. And then it's all kissing, and Caz fumbling with Gillian's bra. Wet and snapping and dangerous, the threat of an unlocked front door always with them.

Caz's tongue does its best as always to drive Gillian mad, her teeth nipping at the curve of Gillian's breast. Mouth soothing and stimulating at once. Gillian settles into the contradictory feelings, everything too much and not enough, and tries to give as good as she gets. It helps she's on top, legs back to bracketing Caz's, fingers battling with the zipper on Caz's trousers.

Fingers inside Caz's--"oh, yeah, definitely laundry day, you minx"--pants, parting her folds and one stroke, two, enjoying her wetness (avoiding the temptation to tease,  _is this for me?_ ) and then three fingers inside her at once. Caz's hips buck. Gillian stays on, the mental image of Caz-as-bull hysterical and far too vivid, and turns her wrist a bit to prevent it aching too much come morning.

"Fuck, okay," Caz says. She meets Gillian's rhythm perfectly--always has done, once they got passed the bullshit antagonism and fucked in the single occupancy at some boring AmDram performance or another, putting every relationship in either of their lives up in flames--and leans up to snog Gillian as Gillian fucks her. Gillian's wrist is going to need it's bloody brace tomorrow, trapped as it is, and she rolls Caz's clit with her thumb. Caz's mouth, tongue, miss Gillian's mouth, kiss her cheek, her chin, sloppy and desperate and wet.

Gillian unbuttons her jeans, reaches into her own pants with her other hand. Prays to the gods of sheep farmers everywhere her thighs and core are strong enough to keep her upright through this, through fucking Caz and herself both at once. Her muscles sting, ache, and a bead of sweat rolls into her eye--she blinks, starts to topple, manages to extricate her hands, hears her wrist snapping in her head the second before Caz catches her. Starts to laugh.

"F-fuck you, it's not bloody," Gillian says, but she can't help the ripple of giggles from overwhelming her. Taking over her body until they're both mostly naked, laughing like a pack of hyenas, on Caz's sofa in the sitting room far too close to her unlocked front door.

"Right," Caz says, between bouts of laughter, "Upstairs. My bed is less likely to result in a trip to A&E for one or both of us, not to mention the risk of child or parent barging in."

"Oh god." Gillian groans. Thinks they're both of them remembering the particularly vivid shade of purple Celia's face had gone the time she walked in on them in the kitchen last week; knows she is, at least, and Caz is looking a bit worse for the wear too, trying to gather up her far-flung clothes from whence they flung. Arse over the arm of the sofa, and her mobile blinking a text notification right there for Gillian's taking.

She grabs it, curled up in the opposite corner, and plugs in Flora's birthdate, disappointed and excited in turn when it works--"this is a shit passcode, Caz, don't you lot do trainings on this crap," a red flag for Caz to charge at, and Caz does not disappoint, leaping across the sofa faster than Gillian thought possible--and sees the order confirmation for a sweater in the seconds before Caz grabs the mobile from her hands. Some old geezer modeling it, hideous with _I like my sheep_ across the back. Gillian can't wait to wear it. Can't wait to wear aught but that sweater and her new black knickers the first time she sees Caz after Christmas.

Still, Gillian tries to look offended. Nose in the air, her best Celia impression mixed with a touch of Caz herself for verisimilitude. Caz sniffs. Her best sad puppy face; not a particularly effective one, truth be told, she's forever too officious to pull it off properly (not too mention she's still topless, red-faced, delectable; Gillian wants nothing more than to tie her up to her giant bed, make her beg until her voice goes).

"It's meant to be funny." Caz sniffs again.

"You're crap at that," Gillian says, waving her hand at Caz's, well, everything. "The whole kicked puppy act n'all."

Caz pouts even harder. Gillian snorts, which sets them both off all over again, and then it's rolling around like idiots for a bit longer. Caz's skin stupidly soft from that expensive lotion she favors, Gillian's callouses aiming for all her favorite parts.

"Upstairs," Caz repeats. Gillian sucks the place where her arm and shoulder meet, and she's pretty sure she's not heard that particular sound from Caz before. At least not with Caz's legs not pressed against her ears, making everything sound like she's wearing those fancy headphones the boys all sport.

The primal part of her wants to push back. To argue the point, to push Caz down and make her come right here. But the part of her that knows their whole relationship to date's been a comedy of "oh who's going to catch us know" errors--Olga first, then her dad and Celia and she's half sure she spotted Ellie through the window the last time they tried this in Gillian's jeep--kisses her way back to Caz's mouth. Licks in, snogs Caz, and pulls back all in as little time as she can manage.

"Upstairs," she says. She hops, pulling her denims back up over her hips. She leaves the flies unbuttoned.

Listens to the sounds of Caz kicking her trousers the rest of the way off, then gathering as many of her clothes as she's managed to find. Following behind, not even attempting to avoid the squeaky places on the stairs. When she hears Caz reach the top step, Gillian turns. Hands on hips, breasts jutting out for maximum effect. Caz stops short. Squints and stares.

"All right, the sweater is funny," Gillian finally says, once she's drawn out the tension to maximum dramatic effect. She's watched enough films over the years to recognize the right moment. To play to it. "You mad bint, I can't wait to see you in it. It must look better than those ancient pants."

Caz's mouth opens. Closes. The pile of clothing in her arms seems to wriggle and leap about, suddenly alive and ridiculous, and Caz juggles them about to keep from dropping anything. Gillian exits stage left, which is to say she walks into Caz's bedroom and heads directly to the bed. Shimmies out of her jeans and pants at once, kicks them away to the far corners of the room.

"I'll see _you_ in it," Caz says, locking the bedroom door behind her. Dropping her bundle to the floor just inside and stalking toward Gillian; her mobile lands on the nightstand with a thump. Gillian shivers. Can't stop herself reaching down, pressing a palm against her own cunt. Pressing and pressing and savoring the pressure.

"That doesn't even make _sense_." It takes her too long to spit out, but Caz still reacts the way Gillian intended. Eyes slits, mouth feral, hands pushing her pants down so she can step out of them.

"You don't make sense," Caz says. She crawls over Gillian on the bed, smacks her hand away from her twat, tangles her fingers with Gillian's and holds her hands down at her sides. "Luckily for you, I see that as a challenge, not a deterrent."

"Can't say you're rising to the occasion as far as I can tell," Gillian says.

Caz smirks. Presses Gillian's hands down harder, the contrast of soft bed and the tightness of Caz's fingers a bloody delight, and leans forward to scrape a kiss against the underside of Gillian's jaw. Another to her neck, her ear, her shoulder: all teeth and lips, gentleness and danger all swimming together. Refusing to give more when Gillian leans into it, refusing to add her hands to the action lest Gillian counter with her own.

Caz's mouth is a bloody miracle, once she finally stops talking. Her tongue too. She settles between Gillian's thighs, hands sweaty and wrapped around Caz's wrists, and _licks_. Gillian's toes curl, she's so ready. And then Caz turns to concentrate on the inside of Gillian's thigh, bites and sucks and kisses, rubbing her nose against the skin of Gillian's leg in a frustratingly effective tease.

Gillian's muscles vibrate. Her arms struggle against Caz's hold. Her fingers twitch. She wants to tangle her hands in Caz's hair, to push her face where Gillian wants it, but Caz is stronger than she looks (not to mention she's got all the leverage, the position they're in). Gillian grunts. Holds in everything that suddenly wants to babble out of her mouth, _please_ and _now you bitch_ and _fuck me_ and all, holds it in and fucking eggs Caz on with her silence. Glaring even though Caz can't see her face, what with the way she's busy marking up Gillian's inner thigh.

She's going to be bruised to all hell tomorrow. Sore and aching and-- _fuck_ , Caz must psychically know Gillian's mind went wandering, because she picks that moment to lick into Gillian's cunt. To apply all that sheer-bloody-mindedness of hers to tearing Gillian to bits, to hell with putting her back together again. Gillian bites her lip. Her throat aches from the effort of not screaming. Her feet slip against the duvet, knees tented, pressing up against Caz's mouth. The pressure of Caz's tongue working Gillian's clit sudden and perfect, and Gillian's back arches. She screams--

Isn't sure how long she comes, pleasure rippling through her in waves. She loses all sense of time. Eventually Caz releases Gillian's wrists, and Gillian flops her right hand onto Caz's head. Tangles her fingers in Caz's hair. Catches her breath, tries to remember where, who, why, how, "what the fuck."

Caz hums. "That good?" she says, all smug satisfaction meets _why aren't you reciprocating right the fuck now_ : a particular tone aught but Caz can manage. She shifts, sucks at Gillian's hipbone, hums again against Gillian's skin. Gillian lifts her head to try to watch her fuck herself on her own fingers--she's so bloody impatient, it makes Gillian squirm--but her stomach muscles protest. Her head drops back to the pillow, and she closes her eyes. Listens to Caz's moans and grunts, the wet slide of her fingers. Rides the sharp pain when Caz bites down as she comes.

Gillian pats Caz's head a couple of times. The side of her face. "Not my eye," Caz says, words distorted around a yawn, as she pulls herself up Gillian's body. The duvet dragging behind her, tangling with both of their legs.

"Give us a mo," Gillian says, "And I'll just." She flaps her arm. Wiggles her fingers. Her tongue feels heavy, and she can't quite manage any words. Can't remember them. Can't form them. She leaves Caz to fill in the blanks; she's a dirty enough mind, and she loves to show off her vocabulary.

But Caz doesn't respond. Just rolls closer--"hot," Gillian says, slapping and shoving at her--and curls against Gillian. Arm around her waist, head pressed close to her shoulder. Starts to snore a few breaths later. Gillian stares up at the ceiling, warm and sweaty and suffocating, and starts stretching her arm across the bed for Caz's mobile to record the racket. To set it as Caz's ringtone as payback for that sheep sweater joke.

Gillian: 1. Caz: _nil_. Gillian's fingers touch the edge of the phone, and she smiles.


End file.
